


at the still point

by helwolves



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Drinking and Dancing at the Club, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Post-Canon, SASO 2017, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 15:08:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11293197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helwolves/pseuds/helwolves
Summary: It’s late enough that Atsumu doesn’t even protest when Osamu grabs his arm and steers them towards the coat check without another word.The cab ride home isn’t long. Osamu spends it trying not to read too much into the way Atsumu’s fingers press into his wrist on the seat between them.The Miya twins dance and take each other home.(With apologies to T.S. Eliot.)





	at the still point

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [smoke and mirrors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11297628) by [cirrus (themorninglark)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus). 



> [SASO BR2 prompt via DW user rielity again: "At the still point, there the dance is."](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11841769#cmt11841769) Lark graciously let me write a continuation of [her fill for the same prompt](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12270825#cmt12270825) (but a different square), and it isn't nearly as beautiful as its inspiration, but it's... something? A lot? Feel free to stop at the scene break if you're only down for _implied_ twincest. Everyone else, let us face god and walk backwards into hell.

The girl who’d been bold enough to slip in between Osamu and his brother on the dance floor is cute—full lips, curvy, hair short and dark, just Atsumu’s type. Of girl, anyway.

Their hands meet on the girl’s hips, their fingers lacing together easily. She doesn’t seem to notice, or doesn’t care, arching and twirling between the circle of their arms as if to her own rhythm. She’s not even tall enough to get in the way of the two of them staring each other down while the lights glow like foxfire on their skin, cycling colors and intensity along with the music.

But as the last song flows into the next and the girl slides her arms up around Atsumu’s neck, Osamu takes it as his cue to slip away. Maybe get another drink since his buzz has started to wear off just enough that he’s teetering on the precipice of maudlin, where any fucking thing is a risk of tipping him over.

Sometimes he envies his brother’s lack of alcohol tolerance, his overabundance of other kinds of tolerance. Atsumu can be a cheap date; Osamu is more of an effort.

The bar is even more crowded and Osamu’s stool long taken over by the time he winds back through the jostling crowd. Eventually he manages to find a spot and leans in to catch the bartender’s attention, wordlessly gesturing for two more of what he’d been having.

By the time the glasses finally hit the bar top, two arms are sliding around his waist to cage him in against it.

“ _Surpriiiiise_ ,” Atsumu sings, his grin tickling the damp hair at Osamu’s nape.

“Nah,” Osamu says, pushing the second glass into view with one hand while he raises his own with the other. “Cheers.”

Atsumu laughs and his breath is too warm against Osamu’s skin. All of him is too warm as he squeezes in closer so he can reach around and snatch up his whisky.

“Oi, don’t fucking spill on me,” Osamu grumbles when Atsumu tips his glass back in one go over Osamu’s shoulder.

“Like I wouldn’t clean it up,” Atsumu says, his voice low and the very opposite of clean. It’s accompanied by the wet sweep of his tongue behind Osamu’s ear, so brief Osamu would think he imagined it if he didn’t know his brother better, if his body hadn’t already shivered in response.

Osamu should push him off. He knows he should. But it’s dark and the club is so crowded, it’s likely nothing looks amiss. The whisky’s again got Osamu feeling warm and indulgent enough to let it go for now.

“Do you ever wish,” says Atsumu, digging his chin into Osamu’s shoulder, “that we weren’t the exact same height?”

“No?” Osamu shoves back a little, just enough to dislodge himself and turn in place. “What.”

“I dunno,” Atsumu says distantly, staring somewhere around Osamu’s exposed collarbones. “It might be nice if one of us was smaller. Might be cute. Don’t you think?”

“You can always go find the cute short girl again.”

Atsumu’s eyes snap up, something unpleasant hovering in his expression for a moment. But then he seems to force it aside, unsheathing a smile instead. “Oh, I _did_ make you jealous,” he practically purrs, crowding Osamu back against the bar again.

Osamu hums, distracted by Atsumu’s hands going to his waist, under his untucked shirt, thumbs sliding over his bare skin where he wishes he wasn’t ticklish. “Not jealous.”

“ _Something_ , though.”

Osamu feels like a collection of jagged edges, throat burning and heart pounding from other people’s cigarette smoke. He’s been close to cracking all night, and Atsumu is staring at him like he sees every fissure, like always.

It’s late enough that Atsumu doesn’t even protest when Osamu grabs his arm and steers them towards the coat check without another word.

The cab ride home isn’t long. Osamu spends it trying not to read too much into the way Atsumu’s fingers press into his wrist on the seat between them.

They share an apartment but have their own bedrooms, and usually even manage to maintain certain boundaries. Osamu still can’t seem to keep his thieving brother out of his closet, though, and if Atsumu’s expensive hair products happen to migrate across the hall, that’s just fair. But they’re adults and it’s no longer necessary or acceptable to curl up together at the end of every day to commiserate and recharge.

But sometimes—sometimes.

Tonight Osamu doesn’t say anything when Atsumu slinks unsteadily into his bedroom instead of his own after finishing up whatever the fuck he does in the bathroom every night. And Atsumu doesn’t say anything when he flops onto the empty half of the bed and Osamu immediately curls into his back, burying his nose in the crook of his neck where the skin is chilled and smelling of overpriced soap and mint.

Everything’s spinning around Osamu whenever he stops moving, the aftermath of whisky and adrenaline. Pulling Atsumu close means it’s just the two of them in the still center of a hurricane.

Osamu’s body is exhausted but his mind won’t turn off; Atsumu shifting restlessly beside him doesn’t help. Sometimes he wishes he really could read his twin’s thoughts. There are things he can tell, through looks and gestures, through old habits, and times when they’re eerily in sync, but others where he’s left unsure, like he’s stuck trying to perform without knowing the steps. He doesn’t need any psychic powers now, though, to read the way Atsumu is pressing back against him. How he’s tilting his head to allow more room for Osamu to start mouthing wetly down his neck.

_What are we doing,_ Osamu asks with fingertips traced along bare skin.

_Just one more dance,_ says Atsumu’s quickening pulse, the dangerous curve of his spine.

Atsumu’s eyes are still closed, but if he thinks he’s feigning sleep, he’s doing a terrible job of it with all the breathy noises and the squirming. Osamu shakes with quiet laughter and slides his arm down from where it was wrapped around his brother’s chest to brush his palm against the noticeably tented front of his pajama pants.

Atsumu _whines,_ and arches into it when he adds more pressure. “Shit,” he spits, “a little warning maybe.”

Osamu breathes another laugh against Atsumu’s shoulder, grazes his teeth there. “You started it.”

“Lies. Lies and—and—” He breaks off into a soft snarl, lacing his own fingers with Osamu’s and shoving both their hands past his waistband to wrap around his dick.

Osamu lets him do it, but keeps his grip loose and teasing, even when Atsumu makes more and more impatient grunts and tries to quicken the pace, squeezing their fingers tighter and digging the nails of his free hand into Osamu’s arm.

“Mm... ah, _fuck_... you know, you—you shouldn’t let me— _hah_ —be so selfish,” Atsumu chokes out, once Osamu’s started to give in to his wordless demands for _tighter_ and _faster_ and _use your fucking teeth_...

The moan that follows when Osamu rolls his hips, grinding against Atsumu’s ass, suggests that this wasn’t an altogether altruistic request, but he isn’t about to argue over it. Not when he’s so hard it’s dizzying, and Atsumu beside him is scrambling to kick his pants off while blindly fishing around in the nightstand.

In the near dark, Atsumu squints at the bottle he finds, then makes a face over his shoulder. “Remind me to get you better stuff.”

“If you wanna go back to your own room—” Osamu starts mildly, shifting to get his own sweats down around his thighs. He gets cut off when Atsumu reaches back with a slick hand that isn’t nearly warm enough to be wrapping around his dick like that without warning. “ _Fuuuck_ you,” he hisses, laughing too much to give it any real bite.

Atsumu snorts, tossing the lube and settling on his side again, shoulderblades digging into Osamu’s chest. “That’s what you get for being a dick, and I’m _nnnn_ —shit, _yeah_ , just like that, ’Samu...”

“Can you keep your damn legs closed this time?”

“If you’re gonna make it worth my— _ahhh_.”

They’re pretty good at falling in sync with each other’s movements when they aren’t even trying to, and this is no different. Part of what makes it so easy to stumble into, why Osamu doesn’t give it much thought beyond how fucking good it feels. Even Atsumu’s ragged breathing echoes in time with his own as they rock together, Osamu pushing his slicked-up cock deep between Atsumu’s tightly clenched thighs, making Atsumu thrust into their entwined grip with every jerk of his hips.

“You know,” Atsumu says suddenly, interrupting the pleasantly wordless chorus of his gasps and shivery moans. “I guess if—if we weren’t the same height, then— _hnnn_ —this wouldn’t work so well...”

“Oh my god,” Osamu groans, muffled against the back of Atsumu’s neck.

“We’d have to—to figure something else—”

“I’d just have to stick it in you for real then.”

“ _Hah_ , don’t just _say_ shit like—”

“Way less work for me,” Osamu says, thinking out loud, “if you could get off just riding my—”

“Fuck, _fuck_ , I hate you, I h—ah, _ah_...”

Something Osamu probably shouldn’t know: his brother always shakes like this when he comes.

Atsumu also tends to whine and shove Osamu away too soon after he’s finished, complaining of being oversensitive, and why can’t Osamu just get himself off faster too. This time seems no different. Osamu is about to protest when he finds himself shoved onto his back, but then Atsumu is _climbing on top of him_ and grinding down on his dick, with this wild fire in his eyes, this smile that’s almost scary.

If Osamu could pause to think at all, it would be kind of disgusting, the come and lube sliding between their overheated skin, but it feels incredible and he doesn’t have to be the one thinking right now. As always, Atsumu is terrible but kind of a genius.

All it takes is a few of those lewd movements of Atsumu’s hips and his fist barely circling the head of Osamu’s cock and Osamu is fucking gone, helplessly bucking up hard enough to almost knock his brother off of him but for the bruising grip he has on his thighs. He grinds his teeth and growls low in his throat as it tears through him, closing his eyes tight before it’s too much, and everything is still spinning, spinning.

He doesn’t see it coming when Atsumu falls forward and kisses him on the mouth, quick but with a deep swipe of tongue that leaves Osamu reeling.

They don’t _do_ that, not really—maybe when they’re both way more wasted than either of them could claim to be right now. Osamu doesn’t open his eyes until Atsumu’s rolled off of him, grumbling about being sticky as he stumbles to his feet.

“ ’s not fair,” Atsumu says, backlit by the hall light on his return from the bathroom. “You never let me hear you.”

“You make enough noise for the both of us.”

Then Atsumu’s cold toes are jabbing him in the ribs. “Come wash up,” he urges quietly, “and sleep in my bed. It’s gross in here.”

It’s not worth pointing out exactly whose fault that is, Osamu decides. He just lies there on his back, feeling liquid and luminous, watching the shadows on the ceiling spin slower and slower until Atsumu grabs his hand again and pulls.

**Author's Note:**

> retweets/reblogs appreciated: [twitter](https://twitter.com/helwolves/status/878749164309532672) ★ [tumblr](https://helwolves.tumblr.com/post/162223260982/at-the-still-point)


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